


a feeling you thought you'd forgotten

by cosmicbees



Series: its now or never [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1980s, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, M/M, Stargazing, photobooths
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-08 23:24:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17990474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmicbees/pseuds/cosmicbees
Summary: Cape Cod, MassachusettsSeptember, 1981“Don’t do that to me again, Shiro,” Keith finally chokes out, his lips brushing against the skin that peeks out above the collar of Shiro’s sweater. It's already damp from the tears he’s pressed into the skin there. “Don’t you ever fucking do that to me again.”Shiro doesn’t speak, but Keith can feel him nod his head. That, and the hand at the back of his neck, grounding him and holding him in place, are enough for now. It doesn’t fix what is broken in Keith, but it mends the pieces enough that he feels solid enough to stand on his own.





	a feeling you thought you'd forgotten

**Author's Note:**

> this is a sequel to 'its now or never,' and won't quite make sense without it. you can read that [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16606994)
> 
> many thanks to [mei](https://twitter.com/belovedsheith) for commissioning this. it has lived in my heart for so long, and i am so glad to finally be able to share it with all of you. 
> 
> title from vampire weekend's song [horchata](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fh3zE7wWD4E)

**_Cape Cod, Massachusetts_ **

**_September, 1981_ **

  
  


_Keith,_

 

Shiro’s letter arrives a little over a month after his departure–a Monday, cold and dreary, in late September. Weeks of radio silence from Shiro have force Keith to keep busy, picking up any shift he can find, working doubles, and taking odd jobs around town, anything to distract himself until he’s too exhausted to stay awake. It’s his first day off in nearly a week when the letter is pushed through his mail slot, and Keith shoves down the giddiness that rises in him at the sight of Shiro’s handwriting, somehow equal parts graceful and childish in its scrawl across the page. He tucks the folded paper into the pocket of his jacket, buttoned up to the chin to ward off the Autumn chill, and sets out to the coast for the first time in a long while.

 

_I’m sorry._

 

The sky overhead is blue, but cold, the warmth of the sun doing little to warm Keith’s bones when he settles into damp, cool sand. He stretches his legs out towards the water where it churns, deep grey and unhappy, toes pointed towards the horizon. Keith leans back, falling flat against the sand with a _thud_ as his back hits the beach, and holds the letter up to the sky, reading on.

 

_One time you told me that saying sorry was a bad way to start a conversation. I can’t say you’re wrong, but I can say that I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to leave like that, and I should have said goodbye, but I think I got scared._ _I was afraid of what you meant to me.  I’d like to talk to you, if you’ll listen. You can call me anytime. If you don’t want to talk to me, that's okay too._

There’s a break in the page, and a spot of ink where Shiro must have stopped writing, letting the pen rest against the paper, distracted.

 

_Its okay if you hate me, but I think I love you Keith._

 

_Always yours,_

_Shiro_

 

Keith jolts upright, wiping at the tear tracks on his cheeks with a rough sleeve, and shoves the paper back into his jacket. The spinning of his head isn’t soothed by the rough, shuddering breaths that he takes in, and when he digs his fingers into the wet sand, he feels less grounded than ever before.

 

***

 

Keith unfolds the paper in his pocket nervously, phone pressed between his shoulder and skull while he fumbles with Shiro’s letter. He’s read and reread the words there so many times in the last few days that they blur together in his mind just as much as they do on the page, where the crease marks run through Shiro’s handwriting.

Keith has spent over a month trying to push Shiro into the recesses of his mind, busying himself with work and menial tasks that occupy his mind until any thoughts of Shiro are half-hidden behind the dusty remnants of other happy memories. The dopey grin that was stuck to Shiro’s face after he won a dart-throwing game on the boardwalk on a sticky-hot june night is tucked behind a memory of his last Christmas with his dad. Shiro’s hand, warm and sure, his fingers tangled with Keith’s on the ferris wheel is hidden in a deep corner, obscured as best as he can with the memory of his mother dropping him off for his first day of kindergarten.

No matter how hard he tries, though, Keith can’t seem to scrub the feeling of Shiro’s mouth against his own, fingers tugging at the hair at the base of his skull, palm settled against his waist, asking for _more._

He wants that _more_ –whatever it was–again so desperately that it hurts.

Keith looks over the phone number scrawled as a post-script below Shiro’s name. He’d spent the better part of an hour searching through phone book after phone book, looking for the unfamiliar prefix somewhere in their pages, until he’d found his answer–New York City

Shiro’s number is from just down the coast, in the heart of Manhattan. Keith rubs his thumb across the number one last time as he rummages through his pocket, and presses coins into the machine.

When he dials, he has just enough time to fold the letter back into his jacket before a woman on the other end of the line says, “Shirogane household.”

The answer comes only moments after the first ring, and Keith sucks in a sharp breath before he asks, “Is Shi--is uh, Takashi available?”

A pause on the other end of the line. “May I ask who’s calling?”

“I’m a friend from school. Keith.”

“Just a moment, please.”

Keith digs the toe of his boot into the brick wall of the convenience store while the line goes dead for a moment. With his face tilted up to the grey autumn sky, Keith’s breath puffs out in a little white cloud, lost to the chilly breeze.

“Keith?”

Shiro sounds breathless.

“Shiro,” Keith sighs, “hi.”

“Keith,” the shock coloring Shiro’s voice through the phone feels like a well-aimed punch directly to Keith’s throat.

“How are you?” Keith leans forward until his forehead is pressed against cool brick.

“Keith,” Shiro says again, but his voice breaks apart around the words this time. “Keith, I’m so sorry.”

“You already said that, babe,” Keith murmurs, thinking back to Shiro’s letter. The endearment rolls off his tongue so naturally that he doesn’t have time to hold it back.

He doesn’t want to, he realizes.

The payphone feels sticky in Keith’s hand, dirt and sweat against his skin when he says, “you don’t have to apologize.”

There’s an unidentifiable noise on the other end of the line that cuts through Keith’s heart, and Shiro lets out a watery little, “fuck.”

“It’s okay, Shiro. How are you doing?”

“I’m fine,” Shiro hiccups, “I miss you so much, Keith.”

Keith blinks away tears of his own and says, “I miss you too. It’s so good to hear your voice.”

The line goes dead for a minute, and Keith wonders briefly if he’d put enough dimes into the payphone when Shiro asks, “you got my letter?”

“I did, yeah. How is school?”

Shiro chokes out an, “its nice.”

“I’m happy for you, Shiro.” The words are heavy on Keith’s tongue, only half truth and shaded by hurt.

A beat of silence, and then, “can we talk?” Shiro asks quietly.

“Yeah, Shiro,” Keith murmurs, “we’re talking right now.”

“No,” Shiro takes a shuddering breath in, a sound which Keith recognizes so well that he can acutely recall the way Shiro would fill his chest with air, before puffing it all out in a quick burst of air, his entire body deflating with the effort. “I mean, I want to _talk_. To you. In um–in person. If that’s okay.”

“Shiro. I–” Keith hesitates on the words. Thinks too long and chews on the response that sits in the back of his mouth, the weight of it heavy against his molars.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything.” Shiro sounds more broken than Keith has ever heard him, the words spilling out in a rush.

Keith pulls back from the wall and drags a heavy hand across his face. The chill has seeped into his clothes now, through his jacket and into his bones, and he _aches_ with how badly he wants to see Shiro again. When he finally finds it in him to speak again, all he can manage is, “It’s supposed to be nice this weekend.”

“What?”

“It’s supposed to be nice this weekend,” Keith says again, slowly this time. “I think that’s what the paper said.”

A brief moment passes, and then Shiro is laughing, bubbling and bright and melodic and although the sound is filtered through a shitty payphone mounted to the wall of Keith’s local 7/11, it sends a little thrill through Keith, forcing a laugh out of his own throat. Their conversation, whatever it may have been, devolves into a fit of giggles. Keith doesn’t have the wherewithal to consider how strange he must look, leaned up against the convenience store and wiping tears from his eyes.

With the last dregs of laughter curdling on the edge of his voice, Shiro finally manages to say, “this weekend, huh? You mean it?”

It’s a question but there’s something else behind the words that Keith can’t recognize. A moment of hesitation, maybe.

“Yeah,” Keith says softly, “I do.”

Shiro lets out another huff of laughter, breathless and disbelieving this time, “okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah.”

 

***

 

The sun has long since receded behind the horizon by the time that Keith finds himself at the bus station, collar turned up to ward off the late evening chill. He wedges himself into a little corner and watches as people come and go–a little family with their young daughter toddling along beside them, an elderly couple, a girl about Keith’s age, each weaving through the crowded platform with bags in hand.

Shiro’s bus arrives at half past nine, and along with it, a wave of nervous nausea that crashes into the pit of Keith’s stomach. He hardly has time to steel himself against, because Shiro’s the first person down the steps of the shiny silver Greyhound, bag thrown over his shoulder.

He looks good.

Shiro _always_ looks good. Even as silly as Keith thought him to be in the dead, humid heat of summer, dressed in slacks and crisp white button-ups, there was never a moment that he didn’t feel breathless in his presence. He looks nearly the same now, in deep navy trousers, but a thick golden-yellow turtleneck sweater hugs the width of his shoulders instead, and Keith doesn’t remember them being even that broad before but the sight of him alone feels like a well-aimed punch directly to the throat.

Shiro’s eyes graze the busy platform, searching, and Keith, at a loss for words, hardly finds it in him to call out a weak, “Shiro!”

“Keith!” Shiro pivots on his heel, gaze immediately finding Keith in the crowd, hand raised in the dark of the night. A grin splits his face, toothy and bright, and in a few long strides he’s across the platform, less than a yard from Keith. If Keith was speechless before, he’s absolutely hopeless now.

In lieu of speaking, he holds his arms open in greeting.

Shiro accepts the invitation, stepping into Keith’s outstretched arms and letting a wide palm settle across his spine, right between Keith’s shoulder blades. Keith slots in perfectly, as always, and fists his hands in the back of Shiro’s sweater, the knit of it rough beneath his fingers.

“Hi,” Shiro breathes, cheek pressed to where Keith’s hair curls just above his ear.

For as much as Keith has ached in the weeks since Shiro left, as much as he’s faced each day reluctantly, and for as much as he has missed Shiro’s touch, his voice, everything about him virulently, it’s all eclipsed by _this_ moment. With Shiro in his arms again, Keith can’t hold back the tears that threaten to spill any more than he can keep his voice from breaking around Shiro’s name when he buries the word into Shiro’s skin.

“Oh,” Shiro tries to step back, but Keith’s grip on Shiro’s sweater just tightens, pulling him in impossibly closer.

Keith knows they must look ridiculous, with his head shoved into the crook of Shiro’s neck, body shaking as he cries. He feels weak, all the strength sapped from his bones, and he leans into Shiro for support, while Shiro’s hand strokes through his hair where it is longest at the base of his skull. He murmurs words against his scalp that Keith can’t make out, doesn't care to do so as long as Shiro just keeps talking, the words blurring together to soothe his heart where it pounds against his ribcage.

“Don’t do that to me again, Shiro,” Keith finally chokes out, his lips brushing against the skin that peeks out above the collar of Shiro’s sweater. It's already damp from the tears he’s pressed into the skin there. “Don’t you ever fucking do that to me again.”

Shiro doesn’t speak, but Keith can feel him nod his head. That, and the hand at the back of his neck, grounding him and holding him in place, are enough for now. It doesn’t fix what is broken in Keith, but it mends the pieces enough that he feels solid enough to stand on his own.

The platform is still busy around them, but when Keith steps back, Shiro’s hands shift so that they’re framing Keith’s face, his thumbs brushing at the tear tracks streaking their way down his cheeks.

“I’m sorry, Keith,” Shiro says again, and Keith has to close his eyes. Shiro shines so bright in front of him, too bright, and something in Keith is afraid that he’ll disappear at any moment, sinking from view like the sun behind the horizon.  

All that Keith can manage to grit out with the sun shining in his face, eyes squeezed shut against its glory, is a weak, “I know.”

  


***

 

Shiro has always been quiet, a man of few words, but Keith doesn’t realize he’s forgotten this until he and Shiro are seated silently across from one another, knees brushing beneath an ancient, chipped formica table. Shiro hasn’t changed, not really, but something about him seems different from the Shiro in his memories.

This Shiro isn’t softened by the vignette of affection, tucked in close to Keith’s heart. This Shiro looks like Keith feels, tired where his hair falls into his eyes, rough around the edges.  
The two of them are shoved into the tiny back booth of the diner, appraising one another over cups of burnt-bitter coffee. Every time Keith opens his mouth to speak, nothing quite ekes its way out, his mind and throat both rubbed raw by hurt.

Shiro manages to speak first. A simple, “I’m sorry.”

Again.

Keith is tired, worn thin by his own expectations of Shiro’s visit, and the reality of heartbreak sitting less than a yard away. “You’ve already said that,” he sighs, reaching up to knead at his temples.

“I know, but–”

“But what, Shiro?” Keith says, the tone suddenly mutinous. The hazey afterglow of Shiro’s arrival has started to lift, leaving naught but the stark reminder of the weeks he’s spent alone.

“Nothing,” Shiro murmurs as he shrinks in on himself, so much the same boy he was in May–quiet, shy, but with a kind face. The corners of his mouth are turned down now, though, brows furrowed enough that there’s a little crease between his eyebrows.

The silence stretches long and tenuous between them, nothing at all like the comfortable quiet weight he’d grown accustomed to over the summer. Shiro doesn’t look up from the table, and Keith keeps his eyes fixed to where Shiro’s hair spirals out from the crown of his head. Keith measures time by the changing of the stoplight outside their window, cycling from red to green to orange.

It shifts to orange for the fifth time when it starts to rain outside. Little sprinkles of water that gather on the pavement, and bead down the window, distorting the outside world.

The stoplight changes to green for the ninth time, reflected in the black gloss of wet asphalt when Shiro says, “I didn’t want my mother to find out.”

“What?”

“My mom,” Shiro’s gaze flickers up to Keith. “I didn’t want her to wake up before I got home. I was afraid.”

“Your mom.” Keith deadpans.

Shiro’s head falls, his eyes glued to the tabletop, where his fingers tap nervously. “She knew I went to see you, and she was already mad at me that night. If she knew I was out all night I’d be dead.”

Keith feels a pang of sympathy, but it does little to eclipse the hurt still settled deep into his heart. “You still could have said goodbye.”

“I know.” Shiro nods.

“Why didn’t you?”

Shiro looks out the window, to where the stoplight is red again, and answers candidly. “I don’t know.”

Keith bites back the venom in his throat. Instead, he cocks his head, reaches for where the coffee has grown cold on the table, and takes a sip of it. To call the bitterness of the drink lukewarm would be too generous.

 

***

 

The march back to Keith’s apartment is cold and wet, the two of them caught between wind and the downpour of rain, battered into submission and silence. Keith wipes at the water as it runs into his eyes, and unlocks his door with a shaking fingers, the key scraping at the lock before he finally manages to pull it open.

“Did your clothes stay dry?” Keith asks once they’re well inside, eyes flickering to Shiro’s shoulder bag. It’s sopping wet, just like the rest of him, dripping a little puddle of rainwater onto the linoleum floor of Keith’s kitchen.

With a shrug, Shiro unzips the black canvas duffle, and pulls out a neatly folded shirt, the white of it cast into a nearly translucent off-pink by the rainwater when he shakes it loose. “I don’t think so.”

Keith doesn’t speak, but moves to his dresser, rifling through the drawers until he finds what he’s looking for. “Hang your clothing on the shower rod to dry. You can borrow this.”

“You kept that?” Shiro breathes, looking to Keith’s offering. It’s a long sleeve tee shirt, too big to be Keith’s own, with a tiny American flag embroidered just center-left.

Keith shrugs, ducking his head to hide the color that dusts the top of his cheekbones at the mention of the shirt.  “It would have been stupid to throw it away.”

Shiro lent him the shirt once when Keith had gotten cold after an evening swim. It had almost swallowed Keith whole, the hem of it reaching nearly so far down on his thighs as his swimsuit did, his hands hidden in the sleeves.

_You look good_ Shiro had murmured, reaching out to brush wet hair from in front of Keith’s eyes, a curious smile curling at the corners of his mouth.

Now, Shiro accepts the proffered shirt, a sad look in his eyes. A part of Keith understands, it feels like a gift returned.

“Thanks,” he says, the words quiet in the muggy warmth of the apartment.

With a shrug, Keith takes the wet clothing from Shiro’s grip, and holds his hand out expectantly until Shiro pulls the bag from over his shoulder to hand it to him as well. Keith cocks his head towards the bathroom, “I’ll hang these up.”

Shiro watches as Keith stops by his closet to grab a handful of wire hangers and disappears behind the door adjacent to him. Keith internalizes the rough scrape of metal against metal as he hooks each hanger, draped with wet garments, across the shower curtain rod. It grates at the pressure already building behind his eyes.

The charm of Shiro’s voice on the phone, the wonder of his arms wrapped tight around Keith at the bus station are fading into a tension that Keith can feel weaving through his words just as much as it is through his shoulders and down his spine. The irritation in the back of his skull has been growing since they sat down in the cracked vinyl booths of the diner, overtaking the relief he’d thought he would feel at Shiro’s return.

The creaking of the door that leads into the tiny bathroom alerts Keith to Shiro’s entrance, the sticky sound of bare feet on linoleum following close behind.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Shiro says.

Keith keeps his back to the door–to Shiro–when he murmurs, “it’s fine.”

“I can help,” Shiro’s hand settles on Keith’s shoulder, a familiar weight.

Keith shrugs it off as he unballs a pair of socks and hangs them over the length of the wire, and reaches up and over his head to place the hanger alongside the others. “I’m done anyway.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

Keith turns just as Shiro hoists himself onto the bathroom counter, sitting with bare legs dangling over the edge of it, swinging back and forth. His wet clothing has been replaced by the shirt that Keith had found in his drawer. It fits him well, better than it ever fit Keith. Snug in the best way, stretched across Shiro’s shoulders and chest.

When Keith tries to duck out of the bathroom, Shiro lunges out to grab at his arm, pulling him back in close until he’s wedged between Shiro’s knees. Keith crosses his arms over his chest, looking up at Shiro, whose fingers ghost from his shoulders to his arms, and back up again.

Shiro leans in, quickly enough that Keith doesn’t have time to wheedle his way out of it, but slowly enough that he’s able to turn his head so that Shiro’s lips land on his cheek, rather than his mouth. Shiro shocks back at that, hands falling from their position on the edge of Keith’s collarbones.

“Keith?” Shiro asks, voice equal parts hurt and confused. It needles at Keith’s insides, discomfort and guilt warring with the frustration from earlier, and he tries to quash it down and level his voice.

“Can we talk about this tomorrow, Shiro?” Keith asks, “I’m tired.”

Shiro schools his face into something more neutral, though the furrow between his brows remains when he blinks. He says, “Yeah.”

“Let’s go to bed,” Keith murmurs. Shiro follows him from the bathroom, into the living space on heavy feet. The only light in the room is the little lamp on the bedside table, casting deep grey shadows across the room.

Shiro opens his mouth to say something, eyes flickering between Keith, and where the blankets on his bed are pulled back, ruffled by use. It’s unspoken, but a question– _is this okay?_

“It’s fine, Shiro,” Keith sighs, crawling across the mattress. He curls into himself, knees pulled up almost to his chest, and with his back to Shiro he says, “just come to bed.”

“It’s fine,” Shiro repeats absently, and with the click of a lamp, Shiro gets into bed alongside him, the mattress shifting under the shared weight of the two of them. Keith can feel the warmth of Shiro’s body heat along his back, though he can’t see him from where his face is tucked into the void of the white wall, painted a murky blue by the moonlight filtering in through the curtains.

Neither of them speak into the darkness, and Keith focuses more on the sound of rain against the window than he does the soft sounds of Shiro’s breathing. He lets the pitter patter dull his senses, and by the time Shiro whispers his name into the quiet of the room, Keith has long been asleep.

 

***

 

Keith’s eyes flutter open to mid-morning sunshine, and the sticky press of skin on skin. At some point during the night, he shifted enough that he’s now curled into Shiro’s side. Their bare legs tangled together, and his hand is tucked between Shiro’s shirt and chest, fingers spread wide across his sternum.

In sleep, he’d found comfort in the contact, but in wakefulness he’s anything but comfortable, resentment creeping beneath his skin. Shiro’s body heat feels cold against his skin, a few months too late.

With a little huff of frustration, Keith twists himself out of Shiro’s arms. The movement is far too rough, unpracticed, and it pulls Shiro into wakefulness alongside him.

“Morning,” Shiro groans. The words slur from the grogginess in his voice, and he stretches his arms above his head, before rolling over onto his side to look at Keith, head propped up on his fist.

“Hi,” Keith says, the words sharp in his mouth, short and acrid in a way that he doesn’t even expect himself.

Shiro’s mouth turns down, disappointment or dissatisfaction, Keith can’t be sure which, but he asks, “is everything okay?”

It isn’t, of course it isn’t.

Waking up in Shiro’s arms isn’t what he’d envisioned. It isn’t butterflies in the pit of his stomach, or waking Shiro up with kisses pressed to the underside of his chin. There’s no ray of sunlight cutting through the window to fall across Shiro’s face, carving the sharp line of his jaw out in vivid gold.

Instead Keith’s heart has been hardened by grief. The victory of Shiro’s hand, heavy and warm as it draped across his shoulder feels hollow in the light of day. He sits up, presses his back against the wall, and lets his head fall back with a _thunk_ ; answers candidly, bitterly.

“No.”

Shiro sits up at that, too, understanding spreading across his face as he reaches a hand out to settle on Keith’s knee. He says, again, “ _God_ , I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“I _know_ that, Shiro,” Keith bites back the bile in his throat, but can’t withhold the venom, “But what? You’re sorry, and what? You think you get to walk out, and then waltz back in and just get my undying gratitude that you even came back on top of my forgiveness? Is that really something you expected?”

Shiro’s hand slides from Keith’s knee. His words are quiet, “I thought you said you wanted to see me.”

“I did–I do,” Keith hits his head back against the wall again, another little _thud_ , and moves his hands to his face, where he presses the heels of his palms into the hollows of his eyes. “You don’t _get it_ , do you?”

Sounding nearly so broken as Keith feels, Shiro asks, “did you invite me here to yell at me?”

“You _left_ , Shiro,” Keith grits out, eyes peeking from between his fingers. Shiro looks small, kneeling on the bed. “You don’t get to ask questions. Do you know what it’s like to wake up to an empty bed when you expect your best friend to be there?”

Shiro’s admission is hardly a whisper. “No.”

“Of course you don’t, but you left it to me to find out.”

“Keith,” Shiro’s voice breaks around his name, and he reaches out to cradle Keith’s face in his hands. With his palms pressed to the back of Keith’s own hands, fingers framing his face, Shiro murmurs, “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

A burst of laughter forces itself from Keith, anger and disbelief all at once, and he can’t hold back the tears that follow. He moves so that his fingers are wrapped around Shiro’s wrists, holding his hands in place, pressed against Keith’s cheeks. “But you did.”

“I know,” Shiro breathes, a waver in the words. “I know I did and I can’t change that–”

“You can’t.”

“I know,” Shiro nods, sweeping his thumbs under Keith’s eyes, gathering the tears on the tips of his fingers. “I really messed up, but I want to fix it.”

A moment of silence, and a hiccup from Keith, whose fingers tighten on Shiro’s wrists. “D’you really think you can do that?”

“I don’t know,” Shiro admits. He leans in close, and hesitates, face just inches from Keith’s. “Is it okay if I try?”

Keith squeezes his eyes shut tight, and takes a shuddering breath in. He doesn’t speak at first. He lets the silence rest for a moment before he leans in too, pressing his forehead to Shiro’s.

“Will you let me try?” Shiro repeats.

“Yeah.”

 

***

 

Shiro and Keith’s morning passes slowly, quietly, the two of them puttering around the apartment together, moving around one another cautiously. Keith curls into himself, keeping his emotions tucked tight into his chest while Shiro works his way through Keith’s music collection, rotating Blondie, Pink Floyd, and Queen through the cassette deck atop his dresser.

He’s missed this.

Shiro’s promise settles heavy in the back of Keith’s mind. He doesn’t expect miracles, an instant revelation of deeds done wrong or for Shiro to make himself into something he’s not for Keith’s benefit. All that he can ask for is Shiro. _His_ Shiro.

His Shiro, who had once shoved a handful of cotton candy into the mouth of a bottle of sprite, and had begged Keith to try it. His Shiro who had hidden his face behind his hands during a scary movie, but still peeked out from between his fingers to watch. His Shiro who had dragged Keith behind him for the whole summer from the arcade to the wharf to shitty diner booths as much as Keith had dragged him along as well.

Once bitten, twice shy, Keith’s reluctance to let Shiro back in is slowly ground down by Shiro humming along to the music, and murmuring the words under his breath. Always just a bit off-key, it’s endearing in its earnestness, and after a while Keith can’t hold back the snort of laughter that spills from his lips. Shiro smiled at that, a little bit bashful, and asked Keith if they could go to the beach after breakfast.

The early autumn sun is still nearly as warm as the summer sun, but the air holds a chill now, sending a shiver down Keith’s spine as he sits in the sand, watching Shiro push his way through the water.

Children litter the beach, making sandcastles and lining their palaces with twig fences and tiny sea shells, bought from the sundries shop a block away. Their parents watch with careful eyes, pulling the ones too young to swim from the tide that washes up on to the shore, while guiding the older ones with gentle hands.

Shiro’s grin is bright and always blinding.

It emerges again at the end of the afternoon, when Shiro is waist deep in the sea, waves lapping at his chest. The sun that shines down isn’t as hot now as it was in July, no, but it still warms Keith’s skin to match the pleasure that spreads through his chest when Shiro calls his name, beckoning him to the water.

“Come on!” he calls, far enough out that Keith almost can’t hear him from his spot on the beach, nestled into the sand.

“What’s in it for me?” Keith yells, holding a hand up to block the light from his eyes.

Shiro’s smile grows impossibly wider, and Keith thinks distantly that he’s never seen it so bright before. “It’s a secret!”

Keith pushes himself to his feet at that, dusting the sand from his palms as he moves towards the shoreline. As always, he’s drawn inexplicably to Shiro, who meets him halfway, where the waves only lap at his knees, and reaches out for Keith.

“What’s the secret,” Keith asks, letting Shiro pull him further into the surf, palm wet against his own.

Shiro just shakes his head, a laugh on his lips.

 

***

 

The sun sets early, falling behind the horizon and casting the ocean tide in golden orange and deep ochre yellow as the night sky fades to black overhead. Having long since crawled from the sea, now dry and tucked beneath a large woven blanket, Shiro and Keith cast their eyes to the first emerging stars.

There’s a space between them still, although they share the blanket that is thrown across their shoulders, enough of a gap that the cool night air sends a chill skittering across Keith’s skin. He turns to look at Shiro, whose gaze is stuck to a little field of stars, flickering before them.

“The stars are so bright here,” he murmurs, finally breaking the silence between them.

Keith looks up, himself, tearing his eyes from Shiro’s profile, and shrugs, “this is nothing.”

“We don’t get them like this in the city,” Shiro says in way of explanation. “Back home, you’re lucky if you see ten whole stars.”

“Home?”

“Tokyo,” Shiro’s response is simple, but there’s a thread of longing in his voice.

Keith turns back to Shiro and asks, “do you miss it?”

“Yeah,” he breathes, “a lot. All the time.”

Keith is quiet for a long while, the unspoken question hanging heavy between them.

_Why don’t you go back?_

“I want to be an astronaut,” Shiro says, pulling his knees up to his chest, and wrapping his arms around them. “I was seven when they walked on the moon, but we don’t have a space program in Japan–not like America does. If I came to university in America with my parents, I could start working towards that. I can try and become a citizen.”

“You’d give up everything for that?” Keith’s words are breathy, moved by wonder.

“I’d give up anything,” Shiro nods, looking to Keith and resting his cheek on his knee. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

Keith nods slowly, letting the weight of the words rest heavy between them. He opens his mouth to speak several times, but clamps it shut again after a few seconds, unsure of what to say.

“You should see the stars out in west Texas,” Keith finally says, “there are millions of them. Too many to count. You could spend a lifetime trying to look at all of the stars, and you still wouldn’t have enough time. I don’t think you’d even see so many on the moon.”

“Is that home for you?”

“Kind of,” Keith quashes down a wave of bitterness. “I guess.”

Shiro doesn’t push the topic, he just lets it rest, and reaches out to where Keith’s hand is curled into the sand, taking his fingers up between his own.

“I haven’t been back since I was fourteen,” Keith explains. He’s quiet, voice thick. “My mom and dad died that year, and I ran before the state could do anything about me. Last I heard, the ranch was transferred to my name when I turned eighteen, but I don’t want to see it.”

“Oh,” Shiro squeezes Keith’s hand. Lost for words, he hopes that the pressure against his palm conveys enough.

“It’s okay,” Keith reaches up to wipe at a little trickle of tears with his free hand. The movement is shaky, and a bitter laugh escapes him. “I’m used to being alone.”

“You shouldn’t have to be.” Shiro says, and the understanding sits heavy between them. Keith may be used to being alone, but Shiro made sure that he was.

Another spell of silence, broken only by the seagulls’ cries, and Keith says, “I just want to be happy, I think.”

The space between them is warmer where their hands are joined, and Shiro hums.

“You deserve it.”

 

***

 

The town moves slowly after the tourist season ends. Once-crowded sidewalks become almost barren, and many of the shops on the boardwalk shutter their doors after Labor Day. The ferris wheel sits motionless at the end of the pier, the once illuminated behemoth cast in shadow, a metal monument to days gone by.

“The arcade is open late,” Shiro points out when Keith gestures to the empty street in front of them. The restaurants and stores that were bustling with life during the summer are now mostly dark despite it being barely nine on a Saturday. “If you wanted to go.”

“Your high score is intact on Galaxian,” Keith says, “don’t worry.”

Shiro stops dead in the middle of the sidewalk. By the time that Keith notices the cold spot beside him, Shiro is a few yards back, head cocked.

“You kept track of my score?” he asks, the faint glow of a streetlamp casting his face in deep shadow.

“No!” Keith shakes his head, a flush rising up his cheeks, “I just...I noticed it the other day.”

“You hate Galaxian!” Shiro says, a smile creeping across his face.

Keith huffs, and turns his back to Shiro. “It’s nothing serious.”

There’s a patter of footsteps behind Keith, quick as the slap against the pavement. A pair of arms wrap around Keith’s body, pulling him back against Shiro’s chest, solid and warm.

“You kept track of my score,” he coos, lips brushing against the back of Keith’s ear, and sending a shiver up his spine.

“Someone had to defend your honor.” Keith says, slowing his pace, and reaching up to wrap his hands around Shiro’s wrists. He tilts his head and leans to the side so that he can see Shiro’s face. “Come on.”

With a skip, Keith twists out of Shiro’s arms, and reaches a hand out to tangle their fingers together instead, pulling him towards the faint light of the arcade in the distance.

Once inside, they nickel and dime their way through most of the games that line the walls, trading in dollars for coins and coins for a minute of pinball or a usually short-lived round of Centipede.

Keith spends most of his time watching Shiro, whose profile is limned in the soft blue-pink glow of neon. The screens soften his features. The furrow of Shiro’s brow, and the focus and frustration where he chews on the corner of his bottom lip, determined to beat his own high score are blurred by the light from the console.

Keith can’t seem to look away, and he loses game, after game, after game taking in Shiro’s crooked smile with one of his own.

He missed this.

Tucked far back in a rarely-visited corner of the arcade is a room full of dusty mechanical games, hardly touched in favor of Pac Man and Pong. Among them sits an ancient, oft-forgotten photobooth, which prints black and white memories on sulfur-scented wet paper.

“I want one,” Shiro breathes, “I’ve never been in a photo booth before.”

Keith lets Shiro tug him behind the curtain, and down onto the tiny seat. It’s impossibly small, just a single stool, and Keith ends up half seated on Shiro’s lap, balancing haphazardly on Shiro’s thigh while he digs in his pocket for a handful of quarters. Shiro leans forward, back to Keith’s chest, and settles a hand on Keith’s waist, reaching past him to feed his own coins into the machine.

Keith stills beneath his touch, just a moment of tension and hesitation before he melts into the brush of fingers, leaning back against Shiro.

“How long do we have before–”

_Click._

Keith is interrupted by a blinding flash of light.  

“There’s your answer,” Shiro shakes with laughter beneath Keith, and Keith digs an elbow into the chest behind him.

“Shut up!” Keith hisses, but he’s grinning into the camera, blindly waiting for the next photo.

_Click_. Another flash of light.

“At least we’ll have one good photo,” Keith grumbles.

Shiro’s hand shifts up, “Keith?”

With a hum, Keith leans so that he can face Shiro, who looks up at him with soft eyes, a question on his lips.

_Click._ Bright, white-hot behind Keith’s eyes.

“Can I kiss you?”

Keith hardly breathes out Shiro’s name–an affirmation and a plea–before he leans in, letting Shiro pull him in with a hand around the back of his neck, slotting their mouths together.

_Click._

For a moment–barely the blink of an eye, time blurs together. Shiro is gentle, prying Keith’s mouth open with a swipe of his tongue and the press of his thumb at the corner of his lips. The hand not pressed to Keith’s face rucks up his t-shirt, and Shiro’s palm is hot on Keith’s waist where it sits snug against his skin.

Keith’s mind flashes back to the beach in late August, and Shiro’s touch drifting between his skin and his waistband, lost in the feeling of their bodies pressed close to one another.

 

***

 

The light leaks out from under the bathroom door as it closes behind Shiro.

Keith wanders for a moment, pulling off his own clothing, and tugs on the first shirt he finds thrown across the footboard of the bed, a crumpled ball of white fabric, long forgotten. He pads into the bathroom on heavy feet, and Shiro looks up from where’s bent over the sink when Keith pushes the door open, the corners of his mouth pulled up into a little smile.

“You’re wearing the shirt again,” Shiro says, reaching out to settle his hands on Keith’s hips, tugging on the fabric. Keith’s eyes wander down to where the same shirt he’d given to Shiro to sleep in last night is now draped across his own body, too big and brushing the tops of his thighs. The tiny American flag sits low on his ribcage, and Shiro leans in, eyes searching Keith’s face for a sign.

Keith reaches up to brush a finger against the corner of Shiro’s mouth right as Shiro dips in, searching for a kiss. Shiro’s brows knit together and he leans back.

“Sorry,” he mutters, “i just thought…”

“Toothpaste,” Keith chuckles, reaching up to curl a hand around the back of Shiro’s neck, “you had a little left over.”

Color creeps high in Shiro’s face. “Oh.”

“Come here,” Keith murmurs, drawing him back in to press his mouth to Shiro’s. It’s chaste, quick, coloured by sharp mint and the little breath that Shiro sucks in, and Keith draws back before he has time to enjoy it. “Thanks.”

“For what?” Shiro asks, just inches from Keith’s face.

“For today,” Keith answers simply. “For everything. I missed you.”

Shiro blinks, understanding. His next words are quiet, careful. “You’re my best friend.”

“You’re mine.” Keith says. He stands up on his tiptoes to press another kiss to Shiro’s mouth. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

Shiro breathes an affirmation before he slips out the door, out of sight.

Keith readies himself for bed slowly, and steps out to find Shiro sitting upright against the headboard, book in hand.

“Where’d you find that?”

“I brought it with me,” Shiro says, just as Keith plucks it out of his hand.

Shiro’s small _hey_ of protest is cut short by the kiss that Keith presses to his lips as he leans over the edge of the bed. The little book gets tossed on to the nightstand with a _thunk_ , and Keith’s hands drift up to frame Shiro’s face instead. Holding him in place, mouths moving in tandem.

Shiro tugs on the hem of Keith’s shirt– _his_ shirt–and Keith clambers into the bed with him, throwing a leg across Shiro’s thighs, straddling his lap. Shiro’s hand pushes up under his t-shirt again. It’s almost an echo of his touch in the photobooth earlier, but more purposeful this time, searching for purchase on Keith’s ribs.

“Did you mean what you wrote in your letter?” Keith murmurs, trailing his lips across Shiro’s face.

“Yes,” There’s no hesitation in Shiro’s voice as his fingers brush over one of Keith’s nipples, forcing Keith to bite back the gasp that threatens to spill over.

“You said–hang on, Shiro,” Keith grabs at Shiro’s wandering hands to still them. “You said you loved me.”

Shiro doesn’t blink. “I do.”

There’s a surge of heartache and warmth that rises high in Keith. “You mean it?”

“Yeah,” Shiro nods, “yes, Keith, of course I do.”

With a sigh, Keith loosens his grip on Shiro, and leans back in to ask, “promise?”

“I love you,” Shiro says the words aloud for the first time, and Keith’s heart pounds in his chest, his throat, in the back of his skull.

Keith breathes his name out, “ _Shiro_ ,” before he dips back in to pull another kiss from Shiro’s mouth.

Shiro draws the kiss out of him, long and slow like molasses, leaving the back of Keith’s throat sticky sweet.

He rolls his hips down on instinct as Shiro’s hands move to his body again, fingertips brushing over muscle and skin. Shiro hisses at the press, and grabs at Keith’s hips, grip too tight.

Keith lets out a sound that borders on a whine, and Shiro’s hand slips down towards the waistband of his underwear, pausing for a brief second.

“Is this okay?”

“Yeah,” Keith laughs, breathless. “It’s okay.”

Each of their hands, hungry and wanting, strip the other of their undergarments, and in an instant Keith bears back down on Shiro.

A roll of his hips, and Keith wants.

Another, and the brush of skin on skin, friction just _this_ side of too rough, too dry, pulls a whine out of Shiro’s throat, torn from behind his teeth with a gasp.

One more, and Shiro’s hands clamp down on Keith’s hips, holding him still.

Keith lets out a sharp laugh, feeling as though he’s in control for the first time since Shiro stepped off the bus. He reaches over, pulling a little container of lube, untouched since mid-August, from the drawer of his bedside table.

His gaze soft, Shiro watches Keith slick the both of them up, working his hand across the length of their cocks with a single minded determination. Deft fingers tighten around them both, and the sweep of Keith’s thumb across the gathering wetness on the head of Shiro’s cock draws a gasp from Shiro.

Shiro’s reaches out to wrap his own hand around Keith’s, squeezing just a bit tighter.

“That’s it,” Keith sighs, letting himself thrust into the heat of their hands, the slide of fingers and Shiro’s cock against his own weaving pleasure into his gut thread by thread.

The wet sounds that fill the space between them are drowned out by the white noise building in Keith’s head, the little huffs of Shiro’s breath, rapid and wet against his ear, the brush of their chests against one another. Keith’s fingers on his free hand card through the short hair at the back of Shiro’s neck, and he presses his mouth to the side of Shiro’s face.

“You’re incredible,” Keith mutters, savoring the wet heat of their hands. They’re both leaking over one another’s fists, sloppy-wet and Shiro is chanting his name under his breath, a debauched mantra of _please, Keith, please_.

Drawn in with a sure touch, Shiro buries his face in Keith’s neck, muffling the rough sounds falling from his lips against the sweat-sticky skin there.

It’s all over too quickly, and Shiro spills hot across their intertwined hands, rutting up against Keith’s cock.

“Shiro,” Keith breathes, working him through it with a gentle twist of his hand under Shiro’s. “Babe–ah, so _good._ ”

Shiro tightens his grip, works his fingers over Keith, and coaxes him over the edge, pulling a sharp gasp from Keith’s mouth when he comes, lips pressed into Shiro’s hair, while he mutters incoherently.

They come down together, holding one another close and trading lazy kisses while Keith cleans them up haphazardly with the tissues at his bedside. Shiro runs his palms up and down Keith’s sides, fingers slotting in between his ribs and holding him in place while he licks into his mouth, slow and steady.

Their breathing slows with their heart rate, and by the time that Shiro pulls them down into the pillows, Keith is curled into Shiro’s side. Both of them are warm still, sweat and sea salt lingering on their skin, and Keith props himself up on an elbow.

He brushes Shiro’s bangs out his eyes, the inky black of them sitting in stark contrast against his forehead, cast pale blue in the moonlight, and murmurs, “It’s good to have you back.”

Shiro smiles, and it’s soft, curling just across the corners of his mouth.

“It’s good to be back.”

 

***

 

When the Sunday sun shines in on Keith’s bed, Shiro’s arm is wrapped around him. Like before, his face is pressed to Shiro’s chest, and his leg is hitched up and over Shiro’s own, only half covered by the blankets on the bed.

Instead of pulling away though, he tilts his head up, nose brushing across the underside of Shiro’s chin as he presses kisses to the stretch of skin.

“Hey,” he says when Shiro shifts beneath him, the stutter of his breathing marking his shift into wakefulness. His fingers tighten on Keith’s shoulder, and he rolls onto his side, tugging Keith in so that his nose is buried in the hollow of his throat.

Keith spends a moment bathing in the quiet awe of the moment. Shiro’ body pressed tight to his feels like a reward for patience–exchanged for a few moments of trust. This is the morning that Keith had wanted–the morning he’d expected, warmed by sunshine, skin, and the splay of Shiro’s breath across the crown of his head.

“Shiro.”

“Hmm?” Shiro’s mouth is pressed to his hair.

“Let’s go get breakfast.”

Keith can feel Shiro shake his head above him. “Let’s stay in bed.”

A low laugh escapes Keith, and he pushes at Shiro’s shoulder, clambering atop him once he’s flat on his back. He looks to the alarm clock on his nightstand, “It’s already half-past nine.”

Shiro runs his hands down the length of Keith’s spine, palms settling on the small of his back. It’s a comforting weight, and Keith leans down to press a kiss to Shiro’s forehead in response to the small sound of protest that slips out from his mouth.

“I want hashbrowns,” Keith says by way of explanation, and slides out of bed. With the covers pulled up and over his face, until only his eyes are peeking out over the pale green comforter, Shiro watches Keith retreat to the bathroom.

Keith scrubs himself down, letting the spray of scalding water wash him clean.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” Keith says, wrapping a towel around himself.

Shiro mumbles a groggy, “hey,” while he rubs at his eyes, still heavy with sleep. The hair on the side of his head sticks up at an odd angle, and Keith’s face softens into a little smile as he reaches out to brush it back down into place.

As soon as he removes his hand, the hair springs back up. Shiro grumbles, reaching up himself to try and soothe it down, with little success.

Keith pushes himself up on to his tiptoes, placing a kiss to Shiro’s temple. “Get cleaned up, and I’ll buy us breakfast.”

It all moves too quickly after that, the morning moving by in a blur. Shiro has to double back to Keith’s apartment just as they reach the lobby of the building, his book from the night before forgotten on the nightstand. Keith watches him march back up the the stairs, and hopes that the passage of time will slow down long enough for him to enjoy a cup of hot coffee over breakfast.

 

***

 

The bus station is more quiet than usual, the hustle and bustle lost to the end of the weekend. They’ve cut it close, having spent longer than planned over pancakes and hashbrowns, laughing until Shiro’s orange juice had come out through his nose.

A New York bound bus is already sitting in wait, the shiny aluminum exterior warm from the afternoon sun, and the door wide open. Keith fiddles with the edge of his shirt, eyes decidedly fixed anywhere but on Shiro, whose duffle bag is thrown over his shoulder.

Shiro’s arm snakes around Keith’s shoulder, tugging him in until he’s pressed to his chest. With a sigh, Keith grabs on tight to Shiro, pulling him closer still, and Shiro’s hand sprawls across his back again.

The bus driver calls out a warning, a final call for any passengers, and Shiro glances over his shoulder nervously.

“I think I’ve got to go,” Shiro mutters.  
“I know,” Keith says, but doesn’t loosen his grip.

The driver calls again and Shiro’s voice breaks around his name, “Keith.”

“I _know_.” Keith huffs, and squeezes Shiro in his arms, before finally letting go and stepping away.

Shiro’s keeps one of his hands on Keith’s shoulder.  He asks, “I’ll see you soon?”

Keith nods, blinking away the wetness at the corners of his eyes. “Yeah. Please.”

Today is cooler than yesterday, but the sun is still bright behind Shiro, warm against Keith’s skin when Shiro slides his palm down Keith’s arm to lace their fingers together.

A single squeeze, and Shiro’s gone, ascending the stairs of the bus.

Keith is slow to react, but he bounds after Shiro right as the doors begin to close behind him. “Wait! Hang on!”  

The bus driver glares out at Keith, but Shiro moves back down to the bottom step, concern writ clear across his face.

“Shiro, if I call you, will you answer?”

“Of course.”

“Good,” Keith nods once, firm, and steps up to the curb. He grabs Shiro’s face in his hands, and presses their lips together. The kiss is too quick to enjoy, but Shiro looks down at him in awe when he steps back. He girds himself before he speaks next, “I love you, too.”

“I know,” he sighs, “I’ll see you soon, Keith.”

 

***

 

Keith’s apartment feels emptier when he gets home. Shiro’s body filled the empty spaces as much as his quiet singing and laughter had, and now that it’s motionless again, the dull throb of loneliness surges back up in Keith’s throat.

He settles on the edge of his mattress, and drags a hand across his face. The feeling is too familiar, but it doesn’t hurt as much. He reaches to turn on his little lamp, and stops dead in his tracks. There’s a photostrip placed gently on his bedside table, beside a little note that simply reads:

_Consider this a promise._

 

_\- Shiro_

Keith’s breath catches in his throat, and he traces each of the four photos with a lazy finger.

His brows are furrowed in the first, mouth half open as he stares just past the camera, but he’s relaxed in the second, grin splitting his face in half. The final two are softer, lips parted just so as he leans in to Shiro’s space, and pressed up tight against him, fingers curling against the back of his jaw in the last.

In each and every one of the images, Shiro’s eyes are filled with wonder as he looks up at Keith.

That night, after the photos had developed, Shiro had tucked the strip into his breast pocket before Keith had the chance to look, promising to show him the photos in better lighting than the arcade could offer. He’d forgotten the pictures by the time they’d got home, wrapped up in the hazy afterglow of Shiro’s laughter. Though Keith hadn’t thought much of it at the time, he wonders if maybe this was Shiro’s plan all along.

This is love, immortalized in hazy sepia, and it makes a spot just center-left of his sternum ache. It’s an old would pulled open at the edges by Shiro’s departure.

Maybe this weekend has served as the band-aid on a bullet wound, but it’s holding Keith’s heart in well enough that the wound on his chest may be able to suture shut of its own accord, given time.

And Keith’s okay with that, if it means that Shiro sticks around for a while longer. If Shiro calls, or writes him a letter. If he does his part to hold the band-aid in place and to staunch the flow from between Keith’s ribs, it will be enough.

It’s enough for now.

He laughs through the tears that gather in the edges of his vision, blurring the already fuzzy images of the photostrip in his hand even further. He’ll call tomorrow.

 

***

 

Shiro picks up on the first ring.

**Author's Note:**

> a million thanks to all of you, and especially to [sarah](https://twitter.com/ailurea), [spooky](https://twitter.com/spooky_foot), and [sana](https://twitter.com/vrepitsana) for cheerleading, teaching me english, and for helping me birth this from my heart womb. 
> 
> my dms are always open on [twitter](https://twitter.com/sheithinlove) and [tumblr](http://patienceyieldslove.tumblr.com/)


End file.
